


In Which Harold Chooses Differently

by halwen



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Not!Fic, Podfic Welcome, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-13
Updated: 2016-02-13
Packaged: 2018-05-20 01:40:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5987779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halwen/pseuds/halwen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>What if Harold hadn't lost his best friend, then learned he could have prevented it? What if Nathan hadn't died in that explosion? What if he hadn't taken up Nathan's mission? What if he hadn't had to leave Grace? </i>
</p><p> </p><p>  <i>Well, truth be told, these are different propositions, and very few of them are true together.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which Harold Chooses Differently

What if Harold hadn't lost his best friend, then learned he could have prevented it? What if Nathan hadn't died in that explosion? What if he hadn't taken up Nathan's mission? What if he hadn't had to leave Grace? 

* * *

 

Well, truth be told, these are different propositions, and very few of them are true together. 

* * *

 

 If Nathan had survived the bomb on the ferry, if Nathan had managed to get the laptop to the reporter, if had he survived publicly, he would have died soon thereafter. Too many people want him dead, and they are not dissuaded by one failed attempt. Perhaps he dies of a gunshot, or of polonium poisoning, or during a mugging apparently gone wrong. Perhaps he is pushed into the street just as a police cruiser comes around the corner, guided by the hand of a nascent HR. In every possible future, Harold can only watch, held back by shock and grief and some unspoken measure of guilt. In every possible future, the reported is suborned, the information doesn't arrive where it should, and Decima and Samaritan gain control of the Machine. In every possible future, Harold does his best to continue Nathan's work, but he fails, again and again and again. Eventually, he realizes that he can't do it alone. Eventually, he finds John. 

* * *

 

If Nathan had died in the explosion on the ferry, if Harold had woken up, watched his best friend die, walked away from Grace, and turned right instead of left, he would have had trouble getting a taxi.

 There are very few cars on the streets by then, hours after the explosion, and everyone is being told to stay at home. If he had turned left, he would have found an unlicensed cabbie happy to delay his own trip home for the promise of three hundred dollars. But he turns right, and there are no cabs to be found. He limps several blocks, finds a different unlicensed cab, its driver much less inclined to be helpful, and spends too long arguing with him. Harold arrives at the Library at three minutes past midnight, and the knowledge that the Machine had had Nathan's number is lost. Without that knowledge, Harold continues his best friend's work, but he lacks Nathan's drive. That was what Nathan had always contributed to projects, what had made them such a good team, and without it, Harold is lost, distracted in a sea of code and possibilities. He saves fewer people than he loses, and hates himself for his failings. If Nathan had been here, they could have made it work. He tries to find a new Nathan, someone who can keep him focused, and fails, time and time again. None of them fit right, they're all too scared of him, or impressed by him, or confused by him. He needs an equal, not an underling; someone who won't always agree with him, someone who won't be too intimidated to talk to him. He scans through the backgrounds of every tech-oriented denizen of New York, and never quite finds what he's looking for. He gets frustrated, and decides that a light lunch might clear his head. While he walks down to the deli three blocks away, he automatically scans the profiles of everyone he passes: force of habit nothing more. One of them catches his eye, though, and he pauses, looks down at his phone. Then he turns, and addresses the bearded drunkard leaning against the wall behind him.

"Mr.Reese?"

* * *

 

If Nathan had survived the bomb on the ferry, had been badly injured, Harold would have woken up to find doctors swarming the area, converging on Nathan's bed. In this version, Harold sits up, one hand clamped protectively to this neck, and watches the staff save the life of his best friend. When Grace rushes in, heart in her throat, she barely gives Nathan a glance - they haven't met, never would have, if Harold had had his way - and frantically scans the room. When she sees Harold, she gasps and darts over to him, sinking down next to him like her strings have been cut. She is careful not to touch him, carefully aware of the way he's holding himself, of his hand on his neck. They're a very small island of stillness, of care, in a busy sea of chaos and confusion. He tells her everything, or as much as he can remember, still dizzy from pain and fear for Nathan and growing relief that she seems to believe him. He shows her the ring, and she smiles and whispers in his ear that of course, of course she'll marry him. Later, he'll remember how he muzzily tried to tell her that he hadn't asked her yet, and she had laughed quietly, and kissed his cheek, and told him that the answer was yes anyway. Then they had sat together, and watched as the doctors saved Nathan's life. Grace packs up her paints and easel, sends a message to her best friend, and moves into the Library with Harold. The three of them chase the numbers, but with three of them, it takes them longer to realize that they still need muscle. They try several people, all ex-military, all angry, grizzled vets, men and women who had put their lives on the line and been left high and dry. None of them work out, until an ex-CIA operative appears on their radar. He'd been left for dead in Ordos, betrayed by his partner and his agency. He'd bounced around for a few years, then had fetched up in the city with several months of beard and a bottle of very cheap whisky. 

“What's his name?” Grace asks. She's standing behind Harold, hand on his shoulder, and out of the very corner of his eye he can see cerulean paint on her fingertips.

“I'm not quite sure,” he answers. “But his last alias was John Reese.”


End file.
